


I Might Not Have the Softest Touch

by OriginalCeenote



Series: And Then Comes Logan with a Baby Carriage [3]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Logan Needs A Hug, Marriage, Oneshot, Ororo is a good listener, RoLo, mention of canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the song of the same title by The Script.</p>
<p>Logan is still grieving a lost love one night. Ororo won't let him suffer alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Might Not Have the Softest Touch

“Hey, ‘Ro?”

“Hmmm?”

“Wanna tell me somethin’?”

“Like what?”

“Why do they make the collars of these things so small when the kids’ heads are so big?”

Ororo looked up from folding a small pile of onesies and sleepers. Her small snort was knowing.

“She gets that from you.” She never resisted the opportunity for small digs, not when he made it so easy.

“Ya hear that? Ya hear yer mom, darlin’?” Blue eyes round as saucers stared back up at him and tiny fists pummeled his hands. Cornstarch baby powder and flowery shampoo tickled his nostrils. “She’s bein’ mean ta yer daddy.”

Ororo shook her head from where she sat, tickled by her husband’s antics with this captive audience. Then again, maybe Logan was the captive. His weathered face screwed up in rubbery contortions and flatulent sounds escaped his lips. Becky cooed in approval over his performance, continuing to flail her fists.

“Tough guy,” she muttered as she went back to her chore.

Logan kept up his running dialogue as he continued to dress the baby in the mint green jersey knit.

“Ya like watchin’ Daddy work. That’s why ya keep messin’ up yer britches, huh?” Logan rolled the tiny undershirt around his hands, stretching the neckline as wide as it would go.

It never failed. He moved left, the baby feinted right, jerking her head every time he tried to slip on the tiny shirt. She began to fuss and struggle as soon as it obscured her vision.

Becky shared her mother’s claustrophobia, hating the muffling sensation of anything covering her tiny face. Logan felt a twinge of panic.

“C’mon, darlin’, just hold still a sec…” Becky greeted this with hiccupping and squirms.

“Now you’ve done it,” Ororo warned ominously.

The shirt finally reached its destination, sliding down snugly over her head, but it was moot. Once her face made its appearance again, Logan’s cause was lost.

“AAAHHHHH…AHHH…AHH!”

“I’m hurryin’, I’m goin’ as fast as I can,” he insisted. “Geez…”

His daughter had his temper and lungs.

It was like wrestling with an octopus. It took more dexterity than Logan knew he had to hold on to her leg to keep her from rolling off the changing table, catch her little arm, and wrestle it into the tiny sleeve. Becky was still holding a grudge toward Logan and the offending neckline; she showed him no pity.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Logan cajoled. “I heard ya.”

“Muuuhhh…” Her lip was pitiful, quivering at him. He was a sucker for that lip. Her cries faded to whimpers as he managed to bundle her into the pajamas, doing up the long line of snaps. His thick fingers were surprisingly nimble with the many delicate tasks he inherited with the births of his children. Logan gave the baby an exaggerated gasp.

“Oh, my gosh, darlin’…yer a KNOCKOUT!” he exclaimed, carefully lifting her. He was a pro at it. “Lookit you,” he crooned, nuzzling her nose. Her earlier frustrations were forgotten. Becky grinned and showed off her rosy gums. She reached out and grabbed at his puckered lips, trying her best to pull them off.

“I’m going to get M’iko ready. She’s been too quiet.”

“Way to pay attention, Mommy,” Logan mocked. Ororo stood and left their suite, tsking over her shoulder.

Logan’s words were prophetic.

“Mariko!”

“Mommy!” The dining room chair squealed against the kitchen tile as Ororo’s five-year-old daughter stared guiltily up at her. Surprised, she dropped her too-heavy burden, the large cookie jar that was too wide for her arms.

CRASH!

“Ack!” Mariko’s shrill scream could break glass. “What on earth?”

“Owwwieeee…” She wavered and danced unsteadily from one foot to the other from her perch on the chair. Ororo saw the cause of her daughter’s cries, a tiny gash on her ankle where her pajama bottoms exposed her skin.

Like Becky, Mariko’s tantrum built in momentum slowly, unstoppably…

“mmmmooOMMMMMYYYYYYY…!”

Goddess help me… “Come here, sweetheart,” Ororo commanded gently, scooping her daughter off the chair. M’iko automatically wrapped her legs around her mother’s waist, like one of the little bendable koala bear pencil toppers she loved.

Logan looked up from playing with the baby as Ororo cruised past with his eldest, kicking up a ruckus.

“Whatsamatter?”

“Dropped the cookie jar.”

“It huuuurrrrtsss!”

More drama ensued. Ororo became the Bad Guy, armed with the ointment, cotton balls and Band-Aids. Her struggle to rinse the tiny cut, pluck out the splinter of ceramic and cover it was as complicated as Logan’s battle with Becky’s outfit.

Ororo’s words were gentle. “You remember what Mommy said about getting up on chairs?”

Sniffle. “Uh-huh.”

“And about getting sweets before dinner?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And about not waiting for Mommy to help you pick up heavy things?”

“Uh-huh.”

Ororo sighed. Like mother, like daughter. Her own sweet tooth was to blame this time. She put a mental note on her shopping list to get a big Tupperware container to use for the Oreos to replace the jar, something plainer and less tempting.

One Dora the Explorer Band-Aid and several kisses later, Mariko forgot her earlier tears and transgressions. Ororo picked out her Christmas dress, hanging it from the doorknob while she ran her daughter’s bath.

“Why do we have to go to church?”

“Uncle Kurt’s going to do the service. We love Uncle Kurt, and it’s a special service for Christmas.” 

Ororo’s next challenge came with Mariko’s hair. Unlike her late namesake, Mariko’s hair wasn’t tame or sleek. She had coarse, curly white locks down her back, kept long at her father’s insistence.

She fussed with the tiny ponytail holder, disgusted that Anna Marie used a plain red elastic that snagged and knotted at the crown of her head.

“Owwww…” Mariko whined, screwing up her face and crossing her arms. She pulled stubbornly away, trying to get as far away from her mother’s hands as she could.

“Hold still!” Ororo hissed.

“Owieowie…” she moaned. And there it was. The famous Munroe-Howlett Pout. She tried as carefully as possible to free the hair without tearing at it, but her hair was a tangled, staticky mess.

“Geez, ‘Ro, yer killin’ her.”

“I…am…not,” she snarled, taking a deep breath. She finally prized it loose, with M’iko struggling and fidgeting the whole way. Her daughter stared balefully at her from the tub as she crawled in. Ororo tossed her a couple of naked Barbies whose hair was just as knotted and mussed, and all was forgiven. Ororo watched Becky batting at her father’s stubbled face while he cradled her at his chest, holding her bottle. He always got the easy part…

Yet it warmed her. His face was content and years younger. He stared rapt while Becky’s eyes began to drift shut for her customary mid-afternoon nap. Ororo resumed Mariko’s bath, washing her hair with more of the Baby Magic shampoo, glad that it was tearless. 

Minutes later, Mariko stared and made faces at her reflection, standing in her cotton undershirt and cable-knit cotton stockings.

Ororo set out her styling implements, including a stiff-bristled brush, wide-toothed comb, leave-in conditioner and a jar of “hair pretties” for M’iko to choose from. She watched her mother warily as she began to massage a generous handful of conditioner into her thick mass of hair, tugging her fingers through the snarls.

Let the games begin.

“Use the brush, Momma, here’s the brush,” she encouraged, handing it to her.

“Mmm,” Ororo murmured as she tried to part it into four sections, with difficulty.

“I don’t like the comb, Momma. The comb hurts.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“The comb’s bad. Look, Momma, see? The brush is good. It doesn’t hurt, see?” She demonstrated this by running it over one side of her head while her mother tried to work on the other side, tugging a clump of hair over her eyes in the process. She looked like she had on a bad toupee…

“I know. I’ll use the brush in a minute. It’s tangled.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is, M’iko.”

“But it isn’t,” she insisted. Her daughter could keep this up all day. Ororo couldn’t wholly blame her stubbornness on her father.

“Oh, but it is. You tangled your pretty hair. You didn’t keep in your hair pretties and nice pigtails Mommy made,” Ororo scolded.

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“But it’s not tangled, Momma.”

Mariko’s voice rose in panic and her eyes grew round as her mother began to pull the comb through the thick hair at the crown. Guilt at having to hurt her daughter with the damned comb nagged at Ororo.

Logan walked in on the show halfway. Mariko had turned on the water works and was holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life while her mother worked out the snarls.

“Damn, ‘Ro, ya are killin’ her.”

“That’ll be enough out of you,” she muttered under her breath.

“M’iko, hold still for yer mom.” She continued to wail a string of incomprehensible words, a few of which he made out as “mean Momma” and “comb’s bad!” He shook his head. “M’iko, quit cryin’ and be a big girl.”

“That’ll happen,” Ororo sighed. She was exhausted; the tiny divot appeared between her brows that told Logan she’d had enough. He’d been on the business end of that little scowl before.

Becky was settled peacefully two doors down in her crib, ensconced with a tinny lullaby played by her mobile and a pacifier tucked in her mouth. Logan and Ororo had a good hour to wrangle their other offspring into her holiday gear and take a breather.

His large hand stopped hers, carefully unwrapping her fingers from the comb.

“What are you doing?”

“Here. Go siddown, ‘Ro, take a load off. Gimme that.” He took the bottle of leave-in detangler and gave her a full-body nudge toward the bathroom door. “Lemme do it. Finish yer coffee.”

“Her hair’s a tangled mess, I’m going to braid it up!”

“I can manage, darlin’, don’t worry about it.”

“But-“ Ororo was about to mention something about matching hair ribbons before Logan growled to silence her. “But-“

“Nope.”

“Logan…”

“Go.”

“I’m just going to-“ He hid the comb behind his back. Mariko was making her escape back toward the tub to grab her soggy Barbies.

Daddy always knew best. The indignant thought reared its head in Ororo until his face softened. Logan looped his arm around her waist and gave her a hard, brusque kiss, despite their audience.

“Yucky.” Mariko wrinkled her nose in disgust and giggled behind her hand.

“Yer next,” Logan promised, leering.

“No, Daddy!”

“Go,” he told his wife. “Gotcha more of that hazelnut crap ya like today when I bought the paper.”

“Blue hair ribbons. I left them on her dresser.”

“I got it.” She kissed him back this time and cupped his cheek. The warmth of her fingers lingered even after she escaped to the kitchen to pour a fresh cup.

“Daddy, don’t use the comb.”

“What comb?” he asked, shrugging even as he picked up the item in question. Ororo had made good headway; his daughter’s hair was almost tame.

“That one.”

‘Where?”

“In your hand.”

“I don’t see any comb.” He finished parting the sections, wincing a little at the likely drama if he pulled too hard, but his daughter didn’t complain.

Then came the fun part. Mariko went about the business of choosing her barrettes with sober importance while Logan nodded in humble obedience. He knew Ororo would have automatically cajoled M’iko into taking the blue ones to go with the dress, but what the heck?

Logan flicked on the radio, knowing they’d be there a while.

“Stand up straight, kid.”

He pulled the brush through the top left section of hair, smoothing it and gathering up the stubborn bits that kept poking loose. The rasp of the bristles through the wooly mass created a familiar rhythm and lulled him. The routine was one he’d grown fond of, despite previous trial and error.

Logan’s breathing slowed and his daughter’s muscles relaxed as he worked. She slumped back periodically against her father’s bulk until he reminded her not to slouch.

He bound the hank of hair into a snug ponytail, drawing whining complaints from M’iko and practically giving himself an aneurysm from trying to stretch the first bead over the other. The elastic snapped back, slapping his knuckle with the bead twice before he finally got it; Logan swallowed the curse before she could add it to her budding vocabulary. He separated the hair into three neat sections and began to braid.

Ororo’s lessons had been arduous, falling under the category of “If I do what ya tell me, will ya quit yer yappin’?” He’d learned out of necessity once he’d begun taking his eldest with him on camping trips.

He was a trained soldier and assassin. He didn’t braid hair. Or so he thought.

Then again, he didn’t warm bottles or change diapers. He didn’t kiss owies. He didn’t rumble lullabies and pat out burps or answer “Who’s there?” to ten thousand knock-knock jokes a day.

He didn’t. Not before.

Losing himself completely when he fell in love had a way of changing a guy’s agenda.

Logan stumbled over Dora the Explorer dolls when he got up in the morning. His commuter cup was hidden in the cupboard next to an assortment of pink plastic sippy cups and bottles with faded nursery characters.

The Wolverine knew and did none of these.

Until he looked deep into blue eyes that held no secrets except his, and the other half of his soul. She reminded him he still had a soul.

 

*

 

She didn’t even ask him what was the matter. That night, she found him halfway through a fifth of Jack Daniels and a cigar, popping and retracting his claws, just to watch himself bleed. Over and over again.

Anyone else would have left as quietly as possible, or perhaps they would have offered him a nervous goodnight.

Her footsteps paused at the doorway behind him. She spun the switch on the dimmer, slowly filling the room with light.

“Leave it,” he croaked.

“I like to be able to see.” Her tone was unapologetic.

“Get outta here with that shit.” He drew on his stub hungrily, pulling the poison deep into his lungs. “Ain’t anything to see here.” The brightness decreased slightly, not so much as to rob the room of its colors and depth. The darkness seemed to swallow him, all except for the scant light offered by his burning embers and the security lamps outside.

“I wondered who the only other person was in the house tonight who couldn’t sleep.”

“Now ya know. G’night, Ororo.”

“No. It’s not a good night.” He turned slightly, only enough to give her his blunt profile. “Not for you.”

“Mighty astute of ya, darlin’. An’ that’s yer business why?”

“Why isn’t it my business?”

“Because it ain’t. He gulped down more whisky and wiped his mouth with his cuff. He continued to ignore her, once again staring at his hands.

Snikt. Snakt. Snikt. Snakt.

He felt her eyes on him, probing him. Her concern was palpable, covering him like a blanket.

Her scent grew closer. It was subtle and warm, holding a note of sandalwood oil and oatmeal-almond soap.

Snikt. Snakt.

“C’mon. Get outta here, darlin’.”

“No.”

“Now yer just tryin’ ta make me mad.”

“Someone got there before me.”

“Whole lotta someones. But why make me take one more name?”

He felt her shrug, without looking at her. Her warmth closed in on him.

The damn frail was cornering him?

He tightened his fingers around the glass. Her breath tickled him, stirring the hairs at his temple.

SNI -

Her deft, slim thieves’ fingers snared his, forming a lattice over them, between his half-extended claws. His heart nearly stopped.

He pounded the glass on the bar. 

“Are. You. Fucking. Nuts.” He turned slowly and pinned her with his glare.

Ororo didn’t flinch. “You were distracting me.”

His mouth worked. He shook his head as if to clear it.

SNNNNAAKKKT…

She adjusted her grip once the risk was removed and held onto him.

He tried to process all of the feelings and all of the voices assaulting him. Ororo was touching him, stroking his knuckles and wiping droplets of his blood away with a tiny napkin.

Ororo who argued with him, occasionally berating him, frequently got in his way and always settled his hash was blowing cool air over the tiny wounds. He shivered. Pain mingled with her concern when he looked into her eyes.

“I could’ve hurt ya. What the hell were ya thinkin’?” Her foolishness irritated him too much to appreciate her intent.

“I have the fastest hands in Cairo, my friend.”

“So now I’m yer friend, eh?”

“Of course.”

“That’s a stretch. Long way from when ya told me I was a savage, not ta mention a heartless killer.”

“That was before you saved my life.”

“Which time?” His voice was more resigned than smug.

“Take your pick.” She reached over and stubbed out his cigar.

“Hey-!”

“You’ve had enough.”

“You…bossy…”

“It smells.” He felt the air shift and saw her eyes fill with preternatural white light, throwing a milky lens over her irises. She blew the remaining smoke in the room away in a rush, up into the air vents.

“You are my friend. I respect you.”

“Big whoop. Yay, me.”

“I worry about you.”

“Didn’t ask ya to.”

“You did, too. Liquor, tobacco, self-mutilation; Logan, I’d call that an invitation.”

He tried to pry his hand away, batting at hers when she fought him. She was stubborn. His effort was half-hearted.

She wrested his hand from him and held it, cradling it. Her tall, lithe body leaned into him, again surprising him. Her position forced him to look at her.

Really look at her.

She was…messy. Her hair hung down her back, thoroughly tousled. She wore a blue terry cloth robe over her nightclothes for decency. He briefly glimpsed a scrap of scalloped lace where the neckline sagged. She didn’t dress for a long night spent out of bed or look like she’d hesitated long before leaving it.

But he focused on her face. She wore no makeup; her lips held the sheen of nighttime lip balm and a chalky remnant of toothpaste in the corner of her mouth.

He studied the soft contours of her cheeks and sculpted features. Her skin was young and firm, unmarred by any excess of laugh lines or creased by frowning. She was stoic, yet serene.

“It’s late. Ya don’t need ta stay up. I wanna be alone.”

“No you don’t. You think you.”

“Oookaaayy… they’re one and the same.”

“It’s safe. You think it’s safe and familiar. But it’s not. It’s just lonely.”

“Suits me fine.”

“Sure. Because you looked so happy when I was walking by.”

“Yeah. Thrilled,” he muttered, but his throat tightened. “So walk on by.” But his fingers squeezed hers firmly, his grip almost needy. It was brief, however; his hand relaxed completely, no longer returning her hold.

“What makes this night worse?”

“Worse?” he choked. “They’re all hell, darlin’. Take yer pick!” He spat her words back at her.

“You listen to music once in a while. I’ve caught you, after you’ve fallen asleep to it, sometimes. You wake up and turn it off as soon as it plays the last note, when it’s completely silent. You like beer after dinner. No whisky, so you planned to do some serious drinking tonight.” She continued to tick points of evidence off on her fingers. Logan grunted. “You didn’t take your walk around the perimeter tonight the way you do after the Professor goes to bed. Even he lets his mind rest once in a while, but not you. You were quiet all day. You even let Piotr beat you at pool.” Her voice was imploring. “You stayed in the Danger Room for four hours. You never even called anyone by your charming nicknames once.”

“Geez…have a lot of time on yer hands, ‘Ro?”

“That’s better. I’m at least ‘Ro again.”

“Ya don’t hafta lose sleep over me losin’ sleep.”

“I’m supposed to just roll over, then, and sleep when my friend hurts. I’ve tried.”

“Try, try again.”

“Tell me what brought you down here tonight.” She wouldn’t budge.

“That’s all I’ve gotta do.”

“Yes.”

“Yer gonna wish ya didn’t ask.

“Leave that up to me to decide.”

Logan got up before she could say anything else. He spoke into the darkness as he fiddled with the dimmer. He seemed to once again disappear into it.

“Tell me somethin’ first, ‘Ro. When ya first laid eyes on me, when we first met, what did ya think of me?”

“Truth?”

“Yeah. Don’t hold back.” He returned to the bar and finished his whiskey.

“I didn’t know what to think. You were hard, and you seemed like you needed to be. I knew if Charles invited you to the school, he must have had good reasons.”

“Not just my sparkling personality, eh?”

“That occurred to me once I got to know you. Before then, you just grunted at me.” His laugh was rusty.

“Thought I had a little more ta say than that, darlin’.”

“Your phrases were colorful, true.” His smile leveled off.

“Yeah.” He folded his arms across his chest. His face was almost vulnerable. “Guess that’s all ya really got from me.”

“Like I said, it took time for me to get to know you.”

“Eh.” He crossed the room and knelt by the fireplace. “I’ve led a long, hard life, darlin’. There ain’t too much that keeps me goin’. I ain’t the type ta put down roots. Not often. Not too many folks have made me wanna try.” He fiddled with the half-depleted logs in the grate and reached for a box of long matchsticks. Ororo smelled the faint spark as he struck it on one of the hearth’s bricks. “Til I met M’iko.”

Ororo was instantly wistful. She huddled more deeply into her robe. Logan turned and saw her tense posture. “Get comfy. You cold?”

“No.” He continued stoking the fire anyway. Watching the flames dance soothed him.

“She didn’t think I was a savage. She called me a ‘warrior.’ That’s a high honor and not one I’ve experienced since, ‘Ro. Mariko made me feel ten feet tall. She was different.”

“She was lovely.”

“Yeah, but more than that, she was just a lady, through an’ through. I’ve loved and lost before, all kindsa’ women, most of ‘em with a wild streak, just as good as makin’ trouble as gettin’ out of it. A lot of ‘em were a lot like me. But M’iko made me think…” He paused and hunkered back onto the couch. Ororo joined him on the other side. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands. Even in her pajamas and mussed hair, she, too, was a lady.

“What did she make you think?”

“She made me feel like a bigger man, a better man than I am. Worth somethin’. There was this one time…well, it was a long time ago.” His smile was gentle. He leaned forward slightly, as though sharing a secret. “I showed up once ta surprise her when she was leavin’ on a trip. I snuck up on her hired car and reached inside the window. Almost made her jump a mile. I had a little present.”

“What kind of present?” She looked as though she approved.

“A chrysanthemum. A white one.”

“Those are lovely.”

“Know what she said ta me?”

“Tell me.”

“She said, ‘It’s beautiful, Logan-sama, and so are you.’ She called me beautiful.” He shook his head. “I thought she had ta be joking. Me.”

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, and she loved you very much.”

“Ya coulda knocked me over with a feather. She didn’t know what she was getting into with me.” He leaned back into the couch cushions and sighed. “And she shoulda never found out.”

“Logan-“

“I didn’t do her any damned favors. When she cast her lot in with me, she signed her death sentence.”

“No, she didn’t. Logan, it wasn’t your fault she died.”

“The hell it wasn’t. And the worst part of it… damn it.” He paused again and leaned over his knees, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. His voice sounded tired. “She wouldn’t marry me because she told me I wasn’t worthy after all. And she was right.”

“No. You know that wasn’t true. She was being manipulated, you know that.”

“Naw. I know she was right. I was just livin’ in this bright, shiny bubble when we were together, ‘Ro. But bubbles break. It always cut me, thinkin’ about losin’ her every night, but at least she was alive and well, even if she wasn’t with me. When I came back into her life, it was the worst thing I could’ve done. The worst fuckin’ thing. Hell’s always nippin’ at my heels, and anyone who follows me’s gonna get burned real bad. Some dumb-assed part of me wanted ta keep reachin’ anyway, for what I couldn’t have. I had joy trapped in my grip with Mariko, and damn it, ‘Ro, I never wanted ta let her go.” Pain poured from him. Ororo felt a cold knot form in her chest. She wanted to reach for him, but she didn’t interrupt. He needed this, a chance to cleanse himself of this burden.

“She was poisoned. She died in my fuckin’ arms. I keep hearin’ her heart stop all over again when I go ta sleep, and how weak her voice sounded. She wasn’t afraid anymore, except for one thing.”

“Tell me,” Ororo urged him.

“She told me not ta mourn. She didn’t want ta leave me alone. She knew that I was done, once she was gone. I had nothing else ta live for, and nothing ta lose. I can’t remember the last time I felt faith in anyone else or myself. There were other women, but not love. It was like tryin’ ta wash off a tattoo.”

“What did you expect? You loved her. When it’s true, it lasts. Even beyond death.”

He mulled her words, then nodded. “Even beyond death.”

Ororo’s voice broke through the darkness around them. “When you think of her at night, take her last words and the sound of her voice with you. Not her last breaths. Just her heart. She gave it to you. She loved you, just as you loved her, and she wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself. And even when you lose faith in yourself, remember that you can find it again in those of us who care about you.” He let her words wash over him with his head bowed, staring at his dangling fists. “Find your worth again in living, not in the deaths that you couldn’t do anything about.”

She sensed she’d said too much. “Well, then,” she decided aloud, rising, “I won’t take up space. I’ll leave you to your peace, my friend. Good night, Logan.”

She didn’t make it two steps before his strong, warm fingers snaked out and closed around her wrist. Her heart skipped in surprise. She turned to stare over her shoulder into his face.

“Don’t go.”

His black eyes were so shattered and filled with so much need. She didn’t resume her place on the end of the couch. Wordlessly she closed the distance between them and knelt before him; her arms crept around him easily, entwining him in her strength. She felt the rough thumps of his heartbeat and ragged pulse as she leaned her temple against his neck. 

The breath rushed out from his lips. He couldn’t breathe for a few moments, couldn’t think. All he could do was give himself up to her embrace and the hands stroking his back in long, smooth caresses. He bowed his face into that tousled, soft hair and held onto her like a lifeline. Because she was.

They didn’t speak. She didn’t leave. The next morning found them tangled together on the couch with her using him for a makeshift bed and blanket. He was cramped but rested. 

“Thanks” was all he muttered as they disengaged.

“Any time,” she murmured to his retreating back.

He took her up on it.

Oh, they still argued, make no mistake. Got on each other’s last nerve, as a matter of fact. He accepted her presence grudgingly when she disturbed his peace during his night time sojourns to the den or outside on the veranda. It became a ritual.

The ritual changed, and it gathered more meaning the first time he kissed her goodnight.

“Hey, ‘Ro…”

He’d called her back again, just as she made her promised vow not to keep him. 

“Yes?”

“C’mere.” His possessive grip on her wrist eased, instead sliding her into his. She didn’t protest when he pulled her into his lap and looped his arm around her waist, locking her there.

“Logan…mmmph…” Ororo’s words died. His touch was tender as he cupped her cheek and kissed her.

It wasn’t a violent dueling of lips or a brief peck. It was slow, thorough and sweet. 

She explored the textures of the crisp hairs peeking up from the collar of his soft flannel shirt, and the coarser stubble along his blunt jaw. He drank in her scent and her taste, vanilla sweet and mellow. His hands mapped out the dent of her waist and the flare of her hips.

He broke it and drew back a moment. Her eyes were drowsy and confused. They beseeched him, Don’t stop. She nuzzled his temple briefly, kissing it.

“I can’t do this. I can’t…” She dreaded his words.

“You can’t love me.”

“That ain’t what I said. But I can’t give ya that, not yet. Mariko’s barely cold in the grave ta me.”

“Do you…need time?”

“I do. But I still need you, ‘Ro.” He kissed her with hunger, matching hers. Her hand shook as she stroked his jaw. He dropped a kiss into her palm. “I do need you.”

And so it continued, with a new purpose and just as much care. Their friendship remained strong, but the love blossoming between them was fragile. It required attention and delicacy, and yes, time. Their friends and family watched without comment as they went through the usual motions of nagging, teasing, and getting on each other’s nerves, all the while seemingly joined at the hip. They were an “old married couple” long before they tied the knot.

They married in spring. Baby Mariko was in her mother’s belly, nearly indiscernible in Ororo’s long white gown. Her name was a reminder that Logan hadn’t lost the memory or the spirit of the woman who once gave him worth or her heart. He earned new worth, new value, new love and new hope as a husband and a father. Twice.

He found redemption in his daughters’ laughter. He found wonder and humility in his wife’s love and in her warmth as he crept into bed every night. She held onto him like the tails of a fading sweet dream and thanked heaven when she gazed up into his face every morning.

They still bickered over baby sitters, bills and other expenses, over which outfit to dress the baby in or whether or not M’iko could have her ears pierced or get a puppy. Ororo lost that last battle when her daughter came galloping inside one afternoon, blue eyes shining with uninhibited joy as she cuddled the little furball. Blast that man…

The dog won her over. Her husband’s “begging” look was mirrored on his daughter’s face. They knew they had her as she stood nuzzling the pup under her chin as it licked her. “Where do you plan to let this thing sleep?”

It was a girl. So Logan had four females running his ranch, needing diapers, walks, stories read, and chores done around the house. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

*

 

He found her in the kitchen, ruminating over her hazelnut-scented cup and a People magazine. Her feet were bare, she was tousled and her posture was relaxed. She peered up at him with an expectant smile.

“Is everything okay?”

“We’ve got one takin’ a nap in one room, and the other one situated in front of the Backyardigans. So in my opinion,” he added slyly, sauntering over and wrapping his arms around her waist, “we’ve got a little free time before we hafta be at church.”

“You’re awful,” she scolded, but she wore a wicked smile as he nuzzled her neck. Oh, but he was persuasive. They went upstairs and down the hall to their suite, and he commenced to…persuade her.

They fiddled with the timer roughly an hour later, fumbling for the perfect shot of all five of them in front of the tree. The sturdy, tall pine was painstakingly decorated with most of the ornaments on the bottom branches, since Mariko was given “creative control” over adding them, and Ororo insisted that her feelings would be hurt if her daddy moved them up. Logan was reminded of the adage that it wasn’t worth it to try to work with pets or kids in front of the camera. Becky cried. M’iko pouted. Pumpkin, the puppy, wriggled and escaped three times. But there it was.

His two princesses, adorable in blue velvet. His queen, decked out in red. And him grinning away.


End file.
